


hope of love

by bitterglitter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Dorks in Love, Drunkenness, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), aziraphale being in love with crowley since the beginning? more likely than you think!, books being used to show love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 06:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19351420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitterglitter/pseuds/bitterglitter
Summary: After all, thousands of years falling in love with a being unable to feel love is something that can be eased into. Being hit with the realization that perhaps not all Demons, specifically the one next to him swinging the wheel of his car to the right in a way that is less like a lane change and more like a swerve just barely missing a building, are entirely incapable of feeling love is much more like a punch to the stomach.





	hope of love

Aziraphale would prefer if none of his books were available for sale, but one had appearances to keep up, and despite the fact that no one could ever compare in his treatment of books he has to have a few hours of the week open for the public to browse. So, naturally, some books do have to be open for purchasing, typically books of lower value that he keeps just in case. But there are some books, a select few that even if this was a normal bookstore, would never be available for sale. 

Over the past few decades, these few books have moved from place to place. Sometimes sitting on a high shelf in the front room, out of the grasp of even the most dedicated book collector, but still in view of his desk. More often, though, they’re in the back. Carefully stacked together on his desk, the only bit of order within all the loose papers and books. Other times closer to the sofa, lined up on a shelf where he can see them whenever he decides to recline. 

No matter where he stores them, though, they are always together. 

These books Aziraphale has managed to keep in tip-top condition, which is something he prides himself on since they were supposed to be blown up in a church full of Nazis in 1941. 

 

 

It is 1941 and Aziraphale is tucked away in the passenger seat of Crowley’s Bentley, the sight of still-burning Church rubble quickly shrinking in the side mirror. As the rest of London around them lights up with explosions, Aziraphale can’t seem to take his eyes off the mirror, even when rubble blinks out of sight much too quickly for any legal speed limit. By now he would have said something to Crowley about his insane speed, but his tongue feels heavy and he knows any sort of speech he could conjure wouldn’t be what he wanted. 

If you ignore the crashing impact of bombs and the sirens blaring, it’s a quiet ride home. Quieter between them than he would’ve liked, but that is to be expected when the last time they had seen each other it had ended in a loud argument next to a duck pond. 

This isn’t an uncomfortable silence or even a tense one. Aziraphale isn’t sure what sort of silence to call it, but to be honest he isn’t thinking about it very hard. Maybe if he was then it wouldn’t be hard later to categorize it when he looks back at this moment. But instead of the silence or the burning world around them, Aziraphale can only look at the mirror, even with the used-to-be Church long gone, and his entire attention has been whittled away to the bag in his hands. The one that is still slightly warm, whether it be from the fire that had engulfed them but had not harmed them, or if this is just a common after-effect of a Demonic miracle he isn’t sure. 

Other than that it is in the exact same condition that it had been when it arrived at the Church. Aziraphale doesn’t feel the need to look into the bag to check on the books. Even if he won’t admit it he completely trusts Crowley. With the fact that the books are just fine. 

He’s fairly certain he couldn’t check on the books even if he wanted too. His body and his mind aren’t exactly in sync at the moment, thoughts are racing too fast yet he is still as a statue. The bag, and therefore the books inside, are clutched to his chest like a prayer. Perhaps under different circumstances, he would say one, but the one to thank for tonight's miracle isn’t someone he can exactly bring up in prayer. 

It takes an explosion hot on their heels, lighting up the mirror in a beautiful wave of yellows and oranges, for Aziraphale to realize he hasn’t blinked in some time. Next to him Crowley mutters something under his breath and hits the gas, jolting the whole car forward. 

Aziraphale has seen lots in his millennia on Earth, so naturally, he’s seen his fair share of human reactions on Earth. Specifically: shock. While his form isn’t entirely human, it is designed to mimic humanity as best as possible, helps with blending in and all that. So, it reasons, he shouldn’t be able to be in shock. At least, not physically, and he can agree with that thought at the moment. 

It will take several days of reflection for him to realize this strange reaction isn’t a symptom of physical shock, but instead emotional. 

After all, thousands of years falling in love with a being unable to feel love is something that can be eased into. Being hit with the realization that perhaps not all Demons, specifically the one next to him swinging the wheel of his car to the right in a way that is less like a lane change and more like a swerve just barely missing a building, are entirely incapable of feeling love is much more like a punch to the stomach. 

But, an idea like a Demon feeling love needs proof. It is a brand new idea, one so new that there has been no time to go out and gather proof. But it is also an idea that only appeared  _ after _ the proof was given. 

Aziraphale’s fingers tighten over the leather of the bag, fingernails sinking lightly into the rough outside. Just enough that he can feel the bumps of the uneven material rub against the tips of his fingers, his nails can scrape the creases. Proof. Physical proof, here in his hands. 

He has looked away from the mirror but only to move his gaze slightly to the right. Not enough to actually look at Crowley, only enough to see a sliver of him. Just enough, for if he was to look right at Crowley, Aziraphale fears that the tight feeling in his chest would be enough to squeeze all the air out of him entirely. And he doesn’t need air, but that doesn’t make the feeling any less uncomfortable.

Slow breath in. Slow breath out. 

For what it’s worth Crowley hasn’t looked over at him either. He wouldn’t have been able to see it if Crowley had, but he would be able to feel it. Since the beginning, he could feel it, even when he was just a serpent peeking over the edge of Eden’s wall. 

If only Aziraphale knew what that feeling, the one that lingers in the back of your head that someone is watching you, would turn into over six thousand years. Perhaps he would be better prepared for this night. Certainly, he wouldn’t have changed anything about that first meeting. But preparation would have been nice. 

The car swerves again and it is only out of habit, with a chid on his tongue, that Aziraphale finally looks at Crowley for the first time since he had been handed the bag.

The first thing that Aziraphale realizes is that nothing has changed – and why should it? These feelings for Aziraphale are not new, perhaps the exact amount that they seem to hit him at that moment is new, but underneath the velocity of it all is all the same. Some part of him is a bit still a bit surprised. Six thousand years and no signs of anything less than reluctant friendship and all of the sudden a sign that maybe Crowley’s feeling amount to more, but he looks exactly the same. 

He’s still leaning back in his seat, body somehow spread out without invading Aziraphale’s side of the car, like always. Glasses perched at the top of his nose. Hands lax on the wheel, somehow gentle while dragging it this way and that, swerving down the street. It feels like the entire world has shifted, but it looks exactly the same. 

“I suppose that while a thank you is in order it, hm, wouldn’t exactly be accepted.” It’s the first thing Aziraphale has said in minutes, and while it isn’t what he would like to say, it’s the safest thing he can think of. And he hasn’t much time to say anything else with them rapidly approaching his bookstore. 

Crowley raises an eyebrow from underneath his sunglasses, it’s impossible to tell exactly where he’s looking but his face is pointed towards the road. Azirapheal digs his fingers into the bag deeper. The smell of ash and smoke is beginning to fill his head. 

Crowley clicks his tongue and tilts his head just slightly in Aziraphale's direction. “I think there’s been enough miracles tonight, angel. Don’t need to go ruining my reputation too bad.” 

Aziraphale can feel the corners of his mouth twitch up. Yes, nothing seems to be different between them. The only sign that perhaps there is anything different than yesterday is the bag in his hands and the constricting feeling in his chest, much like, he thinks with mild amusement, like a snake wrapping itself around his torso. It’s quite fitting, but it is also something he will never ever tell Crowley. 

“Well, I wouldn’t worry.” Aziraphale keeps his words soft, which is quite a feat considering his head wasn’t working properly a moment ago. “It can be a secret between us.”

“Oh? No need to explain why your side is suddenly missing a Church in the middle of London on your watch?”

Aziraphale lets go of the bag just enough to drum his fingers against it as if in thought. He knows what the question is. Not a question of trust or loyalty, Crowley knows that if Aziraphale says he will keep a secret then whatever it is will stay between them forever. No, instead it’s a question of safety.  _ Will your side really be okay with this? You won’t get in trouble?  _

“I think that with all these Nazi’s running about, perhaps a bit of holy-like justice is needed in times like these. Sacrifices had to be made, but there’s no telling what evil that undercover group was getting up to in London.” This, Aziraphale is happy to see, gets just the hint of a smile out of Crowley. “So, no, I believe my side will very much understand that such measures had to be taken to protect the good, heaven-bound people of London.” 

“Glad to see your paperwork already sorted out, then.” The words are dry coming out of Crowley’s mouth, but the hint of the smile is still there. The snake wrapping itself around Aziraphale’s chest tightens. 

Suddenly the car slides to a stop, perfectly, in front of his door. With how reckless and wild these car rides are, Aziraphale has a sneaking suspicion that Crowley fills them to the brim with tiny miracles to make sure they get anywhere in one piece. 

The world around them is starting to quite. The air raid is passing. Soon the sirens will calm. The sun will rise. But for now, it is completely still inside the car. Aziraphale knows he should move, if he doesn’t soon dozens of half-thoughts will join together and he knows he will blurt out a question to Crowley that he cannot take back. 

Finally, Crowley turns his head completely to look at Aziraphale, well hopefully to do that. The most frustrating thing about Crowley’s affinity for sunglasses is you can never see past the darkness of them, never knowing where exactly he’s looking. Into Aziraphale’s eyes, or maybe just past him to the side, unable to make eye contact. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s looking down at Aziraphale’s lips-

“I appreciate the ride home.” Is all that Aziraphale can get out. Before he can do or think anything else that might ruin whatever exactly has happened between them tonight, he grips the handles of the bag and opens the car door. 

It isn’t until he’s rounded the car and is halfway to his door when he hears the sound of a window rolling down. No matter how rude it may come off, he can’t bring himself to turn around and look. 

“For what it’s worth,” Crowley calls after him, just loud enough to be heard through the chaos of the night. “It is accepted. Just this once.” 

And then the sound of tires and the snake tightens its hold. 

 

 

Several days after that the books are placed above Aziraphale’s bed, neatly lined up all together, even though the editions look in no way related to a casual observer. He does have to get rid of the bag, though. Dangerous thing to keep something touched with a Demonic miracle in a place where Angels frequent. 

 

 

It is a week after the Almost-Apocalypse and the seventh day that Crowley has come spent the day at Aziraphale’s bookshop. He would comment on the matter to Crowley, but the warm feeling he gets every morning when his shop bell rings and that familiar Demon comes sauntering in stops him every time. That, and if he’s being honest with himself, the fear that any mention of this new arrangement will bring it to a grinding halt. 

Time, to an immortal, feels different. So it isn’t considered rude if you go months, years, or even decades without seeing one another. (Though that almost a century between 1862 and 1941 did upset Aziraphale quite a bit.) Because of this difference in perceiving time it now stands out to Aziraphale that he and Crowley are now practically attached to the hip, especially considering how little time in comparison they spent together before. 

It is the seventh day of the rest of the world and it had gone much the same as the other six. Tending to the bookstore while waiting for Crowley to show up, heading out to brunch together, debating on how to spend the rest of the day, heading out to dinner, and then ending up back at the bookshop sprawled out on the couch together with several bottles of wine open. 

Tonight Crowley had insisted they pull out Aziraphale’s old TV and put a movie on. He had referred to it as Netflix and Chill with a grin that quickly faded into something much more surprised, and slightly red, when Aziraphale informed him that yes, he did know what that euphemism meant. 

So here they are, streaming a documentary about sea animals on a TV that was only able to play it thanks to a miracle or two, a bottle of wine empty and another one half on its way. Aziraphale swishes the wine around in his glass, feeling more at ease than he has in decades, even before the beginning of the end times, and watches a pod of whales swim across the screen. Ever since their first drunken discussion on the end of the world, Crowley had developed a sort of fascination with undersea life, and Aziraphale always had loved a good documentary. Much better than those action films Crowley insisted they watched. 

So it is a surprise when Aziraphale looks over and sees that Crowley’s attention isn’t anywhere near the TV. Instead, his head was tilted much too far to the right to see the television, even with his glasses on. Up, Aziraphale followed what he assumed to be Crowley’s gaze, up to the shelf above -. Oh. 

Aziraphale feels the urge to stop the documentary, even though he knows he himself won’t be the first to say anything. The remote is too far away for a decently tipsy Aziraphale so, quite lazily, he blinks and he hears the show pause. He has gone from looking at the shelf to watching Crowley, trying to find any sort of hint to a reaction. 

Silence goes on for a minute. Aziraphale can feel his mouth start to dry, immediately he takes a rather long sip from his glass, almost completely emptying it. 

“Interesting- interesting place for a hmm, a collection of books like  _ that _ .” The wine bottle they had been sharing is held loosely in Crowley’s grip and he uses it to gesture up at the shelf. The last half of the bottle sloshes, threatening to spill all over the couch and the floor. “Can’t really - you know I can’t really see a connection between them. At first glance. Besides…” 

Aziraphale allows a respectful pause during which the alcohol burns its way down to his stomach. “Besides?” He prompts, trying his best to be gentle while his nerves feel fried. Perhaps tonight is the night. Perhaps now is the time to talk about it. 

“Well, it’s just, it’s fairly obvious that the organization of your books is quite unfriendly to the average customer. Or any customer, really.” Crowley swings his head over, finally, to look at him. If only it weren’t for those damned glasses. “But I don’t suppose you’ve put them together just to throw people off, hm?” 

“Yes, well, not much reason to, given that they’re back here.” 

“Yes,  _ well. _ ” Crowley nods his head and Aziraphale is almost certain it’s the alcohol that makes his fingers itch to rip the glasses off his face. “I’m just surprised that you kept them together for this long.” 

Would it be too much to miracle his glass full again? This is a conversation that needs to be had while sober, but Aziraphale can’t handle this dancing around it without the pleasant buzz soothing his nerves just enough to keep him off the edge. Instead, he finished the little amount in his glass and sets it down on the floor next to the couch. “I can’t see why you would be, those books are very dear to me.”

“I’ve miracled plenty of things for you before.” 

“Well, those are different.” 

For just a moment Aziraphale believes that all of this is a part of God’s ineffable plan because he has half a mind to thank Her as Crowley reaches up and slips the glasses from his nose. Bright yellow, almost glowing, Crowley’s eyes say something that Aziraphale doesn’t recognize in them. Something, he suspects, that if Crowley didn’t wear those glasses all the time, that maybe he would be able to. 

“And why would they be different, angel?” Crowley’s voice has gone unbearably soft, and this is why Aziraphale didn’t sober himself up before the conversation started. And if the way Crowley’s loose limbs suggest, he didn’t sober himself either. 

It doesn’t take much on the couch to move forward into Crowley’s space. Just a slight shift up and over, a hand out to balance himself. The tips of his fingers  _ just  _ brush the pants of Crowley’s thigh and the sharp breath that Crowley takes rings through Aziraphale’s head. He may be feeling slightly dizzy as he leans forward just a tad too much and his curls brush against the spikes of Crowley’s hair. If he were to even move a hair forward their foreheads would be pressed together. 

There suddenly isn’t enough air, which shouldn’t be possible for a being who doesn’t need to breathe. He can see Crowley dig his hand into the arm of the couch, but other than that he doesn’t move a muscle. His eyes, though, his eyes won’t sit still. They move all over Aziraphale and he can both see and feel them. Over his face, his cheeks, his curls, down to his chest, his arm, his hand, back up to his  _ lips _ , before finally resting on his eyes. 

“Because, my dear,” and oh that name is new, but it feels oh so familiar on his lips, “they gave me hope.” 

“Hope?” Crowley’s breath is warm as it ghosts over Aziraphale's face. He breathes in and everything around him is Crowley. “Hope of what? Good presiding over evil?” 

He means it to be a chuckle, but it’s far too breathy for that. “No. Of love.” 

And Aziraphale does what he couldn’t do back in that car, even though he ached for it without letting himself think it. But it has been the end of the world and time feels different now. They feel different now. It is no longer 1941. It is no longer good vs evil. It is no longer side vs side. 

So Aziraphale does not hesitate as he closes that distance and presses his lips to Crowley’s. 

Many books have described the feeling of kissing someone you love. Aziraphale has read it a million times in a million different ways. Fireworks, igniting a fire in you, intense passion that takes you over. But, Aziraphale finds as he presses himself into Crowley, he prefers the ones that describe it as being as easy as breathing. 

Which makes sense. Everything getting to this point, the building of their entire relationship had been its own brand of difficult. But they’ve gotten past all the hard, so of course, this part has to be easy. 

It’s easy to move his hand from the couch onto Crowley’s thigh. It’s easy to lean into the hands that come up to cup his face. It’s easy to push himself closer, pressing his whole body against Crowley’s. It is hard to pull himself away to catch his breath. 

Aziraphale keeps his eyes closed, savoring the moment he had waited six thousand years for. The taste of the wine they shared stains his mouth, but when Aziraphale sticks his tongue out to lick his lips he tastes not just the wine, but something distinctively Crowley. Like a man lost in the desert coming upon an oasis, immediately he needs another taste. Apparently he isn’t the only one because he only has a moment to take in a breath before Crowley pushes himself forward into Aziraphale. 

There is the soft sound of a distant thud, but Aziraphale is focused on much more important things; such as the way Crowley’s hands slip from cupping Aziraphale’s face to combing through his curls, soft yet insistent. Or the way Crowley’s breath hitches when Aziraphale parts his lips. 

It feels like ages before they separate again. Aziraphale could spend a thousand more years right on this couch, with Crowley in his arms. 

Before he had described the feeling of love like a snake, wrapping itself around his chest, stealing his breath away. It had always been a funny image, but now he was sure it was also an accurate one. Especially when he opens his eyes and sees golden serpent eyes staring back at him, wide and in awe like he had just witnessed Aziraphale hang the moon.

He now knows the look in them. The one is hidden so many times by tinted glasses. The look that he had hoped was there in the car in 1941. The look he had felt on him so many times. 

Love. Crowley’s eyes are filled to the brim with love. 

Aziraphale smiles, hoping that the same feeling of love, the one that had been there since the beginning of their Arrangement, would be able to be conveyed in the same way Crowley’s eyes did. By the way Crowley’s face softens, he is fairly certain it had. So he has no trouble debating if another kiss is a good idea, reaching up to pull on the lapels of Crowley’s suit and connecting their lips once again. 

Words would come later, with the sunrise. Where they would be greeted by the other tangled on the couch, bruised lips and a spilled wine bottle on the floor reminding them of the night before, reminding them it was not a dream. Or, more likely, words would come to that afternoon. After a long morning of making up for lost time. 

 

 

It is 4004 B.C. and the first every rainstorm has just passed overhead. Aziraphale stands on the wall of Eden, watching the last of the storm leave him behind, with a Demon tucked under his soaked wing, safe from the water. So far this has been the strangest day Aziraphale has ever had and, unknown to him at the time, it would take quite a long time for another day to best this one. 

The Demon, who had introduced himself as Crawley minutes before the storm hit, has turned his head to watch the dark clouds continue into the distance. Aziraphale turns his head to watch as well, trying to not turn his body too much as to keep Crawley dry throughout the last of the rain, which has turned into hardly a sprinkle as if saying a soft goodbye.

So far, it has not occurred to anyone that there is no longer a need to stand so close.

The sun above them has started to peek through the light grey clouds, only a handful of rays reaching the desert sand, no longer a dusty yellow but a damp brown for the first time ever.

“Hm.” Crawley lets out a strange, almost deflating noise next to Aziraphale, startling him slightly. It wasn’t that he forgot Crawley was there, more that briefly he forgot that it was a Demon standing under his wing. “Wonder if that’ll be a regular thing, then.” 

It hasn’t exactly been a long conversation between the two, but already Crawley’s natural curiosity has already been made completely obvious with his endless questions. Questions that shouldn’t be asked in the first place. Curiosity is fine, an Angel knows, as long as it isn’t voiced. 

“Best not to-” Aziraphale begins to say, the reaction a second nature. 

“Not to speculate, yeah, yeah.” Crawley’s looks over at him with a raised eyebrow, an almost mocking amusement written on his face. “You’ve made your stance on things like this clear enough.”

“I should hope so.” Aziraphale huffs and promptly realizes that he’s still holding his wing over Crowley, even with the sun starting to come out. He tries to be subtle about pulling it away, but by the look Crawley gives him, he isn’t successful. 

“Ineffable plan and all that.” Crawley continues, amusement clearly growing. Something Aziraphale chooses to ignore. 

“Exactly.” 

The sun has finally come back fully into view, it’s warmth already drying the water droplets off his feathers. If he was alone he would stretch them up, bask in the comfortable heat, but is reluctant to do so around a Demon, especially one he just shielded for no good reason he realizes as of right now. It had just been a reaction, helping Crawley. An Angel helping a Demon, something so unnatural shouldn’t have come as second nature. 

Best not to dwell on it, he tries to tell himself. 

Crawley doesn’t seem to have the same reservations that Aziraphale is currently facing, because even though his wings hardly got a spot of water on them, he comfortably stretches them out to soak up the sun. He doesn’t stretch them out far enough to properly invade Aziraphale’s space, something that seems to be on purpose and something that Aziraphale doesn’t know what to think of. A considerate Demon? If an oxymoron hasn’t been invented yet, it has now. 

“Well,” Crawley sighs and tilts his head back to the sky, “I suppose it is time to get going. This should be enough trouble causing for one day, hmm?” 

Perplexing. 

“I should hope so.” Aziraphale frowns, but Crawley doesn’t see it as his eyes are closed against the light. He colors his tone with disapproval and something close to a genuine smile graces Crawley’s face. 

“I’m fairly certain it goes against Hell’s rules to thank an Angel for anything and, unfortunately, I don’t feel like testing out those rules today. Just so you know. Got a reputation to keep and all.” Crawley muses, looking almost lost in thought. “Though, I- I suppose I  _ could _ say that this wasn’t an entirely horrible introduction.” 

“Oh? And is that, what? High praise for a Demon?” 

“From one to an Angel, I’d suppose.” 

Aziraphale scoffs and Crawley finally looks over again and smiles, soft and bright. A startling juxtaposition to the rest of Crowley, which is all sharp lines and deep colors, yet at the same time somehow fitting. Perhaps it’s because everything Aziraphale has observed about Crawley has been a juxtaposition so far. 

“Either way,” Crawley continues, “for what it is worth, if I ever have to talk to another Angel again, I hope it will be you.” 

“ _ Have _ to?” Aziraphale doesn’t mean to laugh, but he hasn’t meant to do lots of things today, so what’s one more thing to the list? “If memory serves, and since this memory happened only moments before, there was no  _ having _ to speak to me. I was the one approached and I don’t recall giving you a reason to approach me.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say no reason,” Crawley mutters under his breath, so soft Aziraphale just barely catches it. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Crawley steps forward towards the edge, and  _ oh goodness is that how close they had been standing?  _ “The sentiment is all the same no matter how you chose to take it. See you around, Angel.” 

And then the Demon known as Crawley is gone with a flap of his wings. 

Aziraphale stands on the wall of Eden much longer than he should, seeing is there is hardly a reason to guard it anymore now that the only inhabitants have been, well, forcibly evicted. But he can’t quite seem to bring himself to move, he hardly even considers it. It isn’t until his clothes and his wings have completely dried that he remembers that he  _ can _ leave this spot. He isn’t even supposed to be up here anyway, only have ventured to the top to watch Adam and Eve leave, both of who are far out of sight by now. 

“Crawley,” Aziraphale mutters under his breath as he turns to go back into Eden. He’s unsure exactly where he should go since what is to happen to his post is unclear, but he could at least head back into the garden for now. “Crawley, Crawley, Crawley.” 

The name can’t seem to leave his lips even as he is sure that he will never see Crawley again. There is hardly a reason for an Angel and a Demon to be near each other without there being a fight. This was just a phenomenon, one to be left behind as Eden was. Aziraphale is confident that he won’t have a reason to ever be in contact with Crawley ever again. 

But, even while Aziraphale thinks this, there is an odd tightening feeling in his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> based on this post on tumblr: https://hamlcts.tumblr.com/post/185730187340/credit-tmblr-twitter-yall-oh-my-god
> 
> [my tumblr](https://gayglitterqueen.tumblr.com/)


End file.
